“Yes!” I breathed, grateful.
With a rush of excitement, I silently exclaimed my gratitude to theGoddess of Luckfor her guidance, leaping into action to snatch the nimble rabbit.
The teachings of my father echoed in my mind, his voice steady as he shared the ancient art of hunting during my childhood. He had taught me that hunting was not merely an act of taking; it was a sacred ritual of sustenance, done with the utmost respect for the lives we claimed.
Before I ever used my bow and arrow on my first kill, he instilled in me the importance of compassion and mindfulness, ensuring I was fully trained to minimize suffering. We honored the animals that fed us, whispering our thanks as we recognized the cycle of life that connected us all in a delicate dance of existence.
I could almost feel the heartbeat of the forest around me, a reminder of the bond I shared with every creature that roamed its depths. I gently placed my hand upon the cool earth, feeling the rich texture beneath my palm as I offered a quiet thanks to the life-giving ground. The air was motionless, heavy with the scent of moss and fresh soil.
I leaned toward the small, still rabbit, its soft fur glistening under the dappled sunlight. I expressed my appreciation for the sustenance it had provided. I carefully removed the arrow from its chest, ensuring a reverent touch that honored the creature.
I started to make my way back to our small cottage. I held the rabbit by its hind legs and tossed my bow over my shoulder. I could have easily taken the life of an animal using my magic if I had it, yet that was not the case.
“Nice rabbit, El!” Landen said as I passed the bakery.
I stopped for a moment. “Thanks. Got any bread to go with our stew tonight?” I gave him my best cheeky smile.
Landen blushed. “You know I got you. One sec,” he said kindly as he quickly went inside. He came right back out and tossed me the bread.
I frowned.
Extra stale.
Just how I liked it.
“Sorry, El. It was all I had today. I already sold everything else.”
I waved him off, “No worries at all. I appreciate you.” His teeth flashed, “See you tonight?”
I started to walk back to my cottage and said over my shoulder, “If you’re lucky.” I didn’t turn back around.
Usually, Landen and I would meet for a drink at the pub and end the night fucking either in the alleyway or behind the bakery, or I’d sneak into his bedroom through his window in the middle of the night for a quickie. It was never serious with us—well, at least for me.
I opened the door to the cottage and slipped off my boots.
THUMP!
“Elara!” Mother scolded. “How many times have I told you not to place the kill on the kitchen table? You’re going to—”
“—get blood into the crevices of the wood and ruin the one nice thing we have,” I finished for her, smirking.
I moved the rabbit to the sink. She huffed but smiled faintly.
Mother cherished this quirky kitchen table, though I still couldn’t understand its allure. The surface was marred with scratches and water stains; its charm stemmed only from the fact that Father carved it himself.
“I appreciate you catching this,” she sighed, wrinkling her nose at the sight of the rabbit, almost as if the mere thought of it made her queasy. Mother eyed the bread. “And I’ll have to extend my gratitude to Landen as well.”
Mother’s aversion to hunting—and the grim task of preparing our meals—left me with the burden of doing so. Not that my stomach was any sturdier; it was just that survival dictated necessity.
“Jonas dropped off a carrot, a potato, and some cabbage,” she continued, gesturing toward the fresh produce piled on the counter. “You can chop them up and add them to the stew.”
The colors of the vegetables contrasted with the muted tones of our kitchen, promising a warm meal despite the chill creeping through the walls.
Mother handed me the fresh ingredients, their earthy scents wafting through the air, and then she carefully set a sturdy pot of water over the crackling flames of the open fire in the living room.
Our cottage was small but cozy: the kitchen with its mismatched chairs, Father’s handmade table, the crackling fire—vital for cooking—, shelves stuffed with books, while a petite loveseat was tucked in the corner and could only seat two. Two tiny bedrooms down a narrow hall and a small bathroom where the shower’s spout only managed to produce lukewarm water during the balmy summer months, leaving winter’s chill to nip at our skin. It wasn’t much, but it was home.
Mother busied herself with the stew, tossing in vegetables Jonas had left from his garden in thanks for her remedies. I skinned the rabbit, knife gliding with practiced ease.
